


in the light of the dying sun

by marquelict



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6x Aziraphale broke Crowley's heart, M/M, and then 1x Crowley finally got happiness, do you like sad and yearning Crowley? well here you go, peep that altered carbon reference, the theme of my piece is temptation and YEARNING, yes this is just scenes of Aziraphale breaking Crowley's heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 10:45:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19439863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marquelict/pseuds/marquelict
Summary: just Crowley yearning for Aziraphale throughout the years





	in the light of the dying sun

**Author's Note:**

> more of my garbage writing uwu

**Rome —** **41 AD.**

Crowley had come all the way from… somewhere. He’d already forgotton. The place he recently was did not matter so much since his mind was preoccupied with something else. Well, more like someone else. He’d caught word that Aziraphale  _ might _ be in Rome.

He currently sat at the bar, drinking from a small mug. His ears piqued interest when a familiar voice lingered behind him. 

The angel approached him. That was a first. 

“Crawly?” the angel then corrected himself. “Crowley.”

This was new. Crowley noticed the nerves that flooded through Aziraphale. It had been, perhaps, eight years since they’d seen each other last. Maybe he caught word of Aziraphale in Rome because he’d been missing his companionship. However, that was something Crowley would never admit to.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “fancy running into you here. Still a demon, then?”

Crowley gave the angel an incredulous look. Was this really what he missed? Crowley hated the part of him that craved the presence of the angel. He was so brilliant, but at times, quite foolish. Though he was undecided: which part actually made Crowley crave?

“‘Still a demon?’ What else am I going to be, an aardvark?” Crowley retorted.

Aziraphale brushed it off. The angel and demon toasted. Both to different things, but in the end, everything is connected; they might as well have toasted to the same thing. 

“In Rome long?”

“Just nipped in for a quick temptation. You?”

Aziraphale liked small talk. Crowley hated it. Or vice versa? Neither of them could quite remember. But they small talked like this often. Maybe they both hated it. Maybe they both wish it would’ve lasted longer.

“I thought I’d try Petronius’ new restaurant,” Aziraphale replied. “I hear he does remarkable things to oysters.”

“I’ve never eaten an oyster,” Crowley said in response. It was an opener for an invitation. A little clip at the end of a sentence when one begins to trail. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said quite startled. “Oh, well, let me tempt you—“

Crowley turned his head, interested. Temptation. A sin that eventually brings everyone down. Crowley was tempted a lot. Tempted by people, by angels, by the starry night sky, by the sun on his skin. He was tempted by the other demons. To do bad and forget good. It was a tricky thing, temptation. Sometimes Crowley fell wholly into it, and sometimes his hair singed at the idea. 

“No, that’s your job, isn’t it?”

And Crowley’s hair singed. He was beginning to falling into this idea of eternity with Aziraphale wholly; this was anything but Holy. But Aziraphale was shying away. Nevertheless, someday Crowley was gonna catch him.

**The Globe Theatre, London —** **1601.**

Crowley was here to observe William Shakespeare’s new play. Hamlet. Ham-let. It already sounded gloomy. Probably was. He didn’t like the gloomy ones. He probably was supposed to, being a demon and all, but a demon still likes a laugh every now and again. He wasn’t just here, however, to observe Shakespeare’s presumably next big flop. Aziraphale had offered quite a trip. They’d been lingering here since one of Shakespeare’s firsts. 

“I thought you said we’d be inconspicuous here,” Crowley said taking a peek at the ten people who filled, or lack-thereof, the stands. “Blend in among the crowds.”

“Well, that was the idea,” Aziraphale sighed. Shakespeare had been doing so well, but he’d been going downhill lately. Much Ado About Nothing had quite the audience. But that was one of the funny ones. 

“This isn’t one of Shakespeare’s gloomy ones, is it?” Crowley asked. “No wonder nobody’s here.”

They were participating, a minimal audience trying to hype up the atmosphere. The actor was moody and definitely going to Hell later in life. So was Shakespeare, too; Crowley had tempted him past redemption, but that wasn’t the point here. Though, the pants were ridiculous. Crowley had to hold back his squeamishness. That said, it was still better than the fourteenth century. Anything was, in fact. 

Aziraphale and Crowley had an arrangement. It was messy and often times undecided. Sometimes Crowley would perform miracles that Aziraphale would usually perform and vice versa. It made things easier. Heaven and Hell never checked. 

“What do you want?” Aziraphale asked.

“Why ever would you insinuate that I might possibly want something?”

Aziraphale floundered.

“You are up to no good,” Aziraphale said.

“Obviously,” Crowley agreed. “You’re up to good, I take it? Lots of good deeds.”

He circled Aziraphale. The atmosphere centered around them, now. Everyone else involved in the proceedings of the play. Aziraphale longed to continue watching the play, but Crowley dragged his attention away in the most irritating way.

“I have to be in Edinburgh at the end of the week,” Aziraphale said. Although he was often irritated, Crowley was the only one he could truly talk to as himself. “A couple of blessings to do. A minor miracle to perform.”

“I’m meant to be heading to Edinburgh, too, this week,” Crowley responded. “Tempting a clan leader to steal some cattle.”

“Doesn’t sound like hard work.”

It was perfect timing. Aziraphale and Crowley had an arrangement. Crowley came up with it, Aziraphale hated it. But the angel often went along with it anyway. It all came back to the idea that Crowley might be able to draw Aziraphale closer, deeper to temptation.

“That’s why I thought— well, bit of a waste of effort,” Crowley tried, “Both of us going all the way to Scotland.”

“You cannot actually be suggesting what I infer you are implying,” Aziraphale groaned.

“Which is?” Crowley was leading him on; backing Aziraphale into a tight, inescapable corner.

“That just one of us goes to Edinburgh, does both,” Aziraphale said. “The blessing… and the tempting.”

“We’ve done it before. Dozens of times now.”

Aziraphale didn’t like that. He liked a lot of things. Good things. Things that made other people happy, things that often made  _ him _ happy. Crowley made him feel… well, he made him feel. That was enough. The scales tipped both ways when it came to Crowley. He had one voice in the back of his head, though, all the time. That gross voice, that sounded a lot like Gabriel, telling him Crowley was only there to tempt him. That all Crowley wanted from Aziraphale was for the angel to fall. He hated that voice, dreaded that voice. It called. It  _ was _ the temptation. Well, if Crowley tried to tempt Aziraphale, Aziraphale would tempt Crowley. 

“Complete dud.” Aziraphale and Crowley heard Shakespeare start. “It’d take a miracle to get anyone to come and see ‘Hamlet.’”

Aziraphale looked longingly at Crowley. Temptation accomplished. After all, Aziraphale had a soft spot for the bard. 

“Yes, alright,” Crowley caved. “I’ll do that one. My treat.”

**Paris —** **1783.**

Of course. Out of all the places to be in 1783, Aziraphale was locked up in the Bastille. It didn’t take long to figure out Aziraphale was in trouble. It was a siren going off in the distance but only inside Crowley’s head. And finding him was easy as shooting fish in a barrel. The angel came dressed in white and unbearably nice. 

“Animals,” Aziraphale huffed.

And Crowley couldn’t hold back a smart retort. “Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, angel. Only humans do that.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed out a sigh of relief, turning around to see his savior. It made Crowley feel… well, it made him feel. 

They discussed the weather. Well, not exactly. They discussed Aziraphale’s reason for being here, which was rather unbelievable. Crowley was not as enticed with food as Aziraphale was, but to also get discorporated for a crepe? He could’ve changed, but not even. Aziraphale was ridiculous, why did Crowley get so enamored every time he was around him. Maybe angels just had that kind of power. 

“Why are you here?” Aziraphale asked.

_ Because you were. _

“My lot sent me a commendation for outstanding job performance.” They did because they thought Crowley helped set forth the French Revolution. He might’ve, but he’d only say that to Lord Beelzebub and the others. He had no part in this. But he’d take the credit. 

“What about if I buy you lunch?”

“Looking like that?” 

Crowley would not rescue Aziraphale just to have the angel thrown back into the Bastille. It was a slight miracle. Aziraphale wouldn’t receive any heavily worded letters for it, though.

The angel and demon watched the man who taunted Aziraphale earlier get towed away.

“What’s for lunch?” Crowley asked.

“What would you say to some crepes?” Aziraphale replied. 

They enjoyed a nice lunch. Well, Aziraphale did. It was a moment that other, respectable humans would call a ‘date.’

**London — 1941.**

Aziraphale was in trouble again. It was a feeling that flared up, a feeling that Crowley knew all too well. And he answered to it. Otherwise, what else was he good for? He was on earth to wreak havoc, but that’s not why he stayed. Maybe it was the people, that was definitely a defining factor. But there was also Aziraphale, who’d been the one constant. Crowley couldn’t let that change, he didn’t want to let that change.

It hurt though because Aziraphale was inside a church. Consecrated grounds, you know the gist. He was a demon, it was gonna hurt like holy hell. But Crowley stepped into the church anyway. ‘Cause otherwise, what else was he good for? He wanted so badly for Aziraphale to know his devotion.

Crowley bounced around on his feet. He woke up from a century-long nap for this. If he saved Aziraphale, it would be worth the waking up. Never mind any past rejection. 

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked.

“Stopping you getting into trouble.”

Crowley spotted the Nazis, the fountain of holy water (without guards!), even introduced himself with his new name. The Nazis, however, continued to threaten Aziraphale; threatened Crowley, too. He had a plan. A solid plan. 

“In about a minute, a German bomber will release a bomb that will land right here,” Crowley started. “If you all run away very, very fast, you might not die. You won’t enjoy dying, definitely won’t enjoy what comes after.”

The Nazis were ignorant, as per usual. And Crowley pursued, as per usual.

“It would take a last-minute demonic intervention to throw them off course,” Crowley said. He watched Aziraphale, who was watching him. He knew. He absolutely knew. “And if, in thirty seconds, a bomb does land here, it would take a real miracle for my friend and I to survive it.”

Friend. 

The bomb fell. 

_ Friend. _

Aziraphale and Crowley were fine. All around them the remains of a church were scattered. Rubble and the rest. It would’ve truly taken a miracle, one performed by Aziraphale. Who knew. Who absolutely knew.

“That was very kind of you.”

“Shut up.” Crowley didn’t like to be thanked. He didn’t like to be called kind. He shouldn’t be called kind. He was anything but. It hurt him to be called kind. He was ejected from Heaven because of it, and he was learning who to live with the lack of it. Kindness. Crowley was anything but.

“Well, it was,” Aziraphale pursued. “No paperwork, for a start.”

A sort of uncomfortable realization dawned on Aziraphale. Crowley knew what it was. He’d come to the church to save Aziraphale. And save Aziraphale from heartbreak, he came to accomplish, too.

“Oh, the books,” Aziraphale pouted. “I forgot all the books! Oh, they’ll all be blown to…”

Crowley cut him off. “Little demonic miracle of my own.”

He handed Aziraphale the books. It wasn’t an act of kindness. It was a friend doing a favor for a friend, yeah. 

“Lift home?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale lingered.

**Soho, London — 1967.**

It was warm. The night bright, all the neon signs and lights fading into the background. Crowley climbed into his car and breathed out a sigh. He had a plan. A solid plan. An well thought out plan to steal some holy water from a church. And maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale would take notice. 

Crowley had asked Aziraphale once before. With fail. Aziraphale declined and then Crowley took a century-long nap. Rejection took its toll on Crowley, who experienced it all too often. 

And Crowley turned, startled a little by the angel sitting shotgun in his Bentley. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I needed a word with you.”

Crowley knew exactly what this was about. “What?”

“I work in Soho,” Aziraphale explained. “I hear things. I hear that you’re setting up a… caper to rob a church.” He took a long pause. Aziraphale looked at Crowley — the demon could see the strings snap. It was utterly heartbreaking. 

“Crowley, it’s too dangerous. Holy water won’t just kill your body. It will destroy you completely.” Aziraphale’s voice clipped on the last bit. 

Yes, Crowley absolutely knew the danger. But he was willing to do it anyway. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation lingering in his body. All the times he went to save Aziraphale from something totally escapable, sometimes he yearned for Aziraphale to do the same. That damned angel was driving Crowley completely crazy. How was it possible for him to feel love? That was supposed to be Aziraphale’s thing, damnit. 

And then Aziraphale gave Crowley a tartan container filled with holy water. It was like handing over his heart if Angels and Demons actually required one. It was Aziraphale ripping his heart from his chest and telling Crowley, “Here. Take it. It’s yours. From the moment I met you, it’s yours.”

“Should I say thank you?”

“Better not.”

Crowley did want to say thank you. But also he was susceptible to anything Aziraphale wanted. And if Aziraphale longed to stay holy, longed to stay away from the evil breath of a demon… it was too late, but Aziraphale could forever pretend. It would break Crowley’s heart, yes, but he was weak to Aziraphale. 

“Oh, don’t look so disappointed,” Aziraphale said. “Perhaps one day we could, I don’t know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.”

He was breaking Crowley’s heart and he knew it. 

“I’ll give you a lift.” Crowley kept trying. “Anywhere you want to go.”

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Unfair. Un-fucking-fair. And Crowley wanted to scream it. But he didn’t. He let the words sink to the bottom of his heart. He kept the tartan container, after all, it was Aziraphale’s heart. He should, from thereon, protect it with his life. Maybe it would reward him someday, and save his life in return.

**Hours** **before Armageddon.**

He was gone. Aziraphale was gone. His angel. Gone. 

Crowley didn’t know what else to do. Armageddon was fast approaching and he didn’t want to leave for Alpha Centauri without Aziraphale. Drink. Just… drink, his body told him. So he fled to a bar and got drunk. 

He was complaining. Crowley wanted nothing to do with Heaven nor Hell.

_ Aziraphale.  _

In front of him, like a ghost. A shadow. Some blurry form. His imagination. 

It was Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, raising his glasses. “Are you here?”

“Good question,” the ghost of Aziraphale replied. “Not certain. Never done this before. Can you hear me?”

Crowley was stumped. He felt everything rush back to him, flashes of history, all of it. The burning bookshop, Hastur chasing him through the telephone wire. All of it. Everything that led up to this unexplainable moment.

“Of course I can hear you.”

“Did you go to Alpha Centauri?” Aziraphale asked. He shook. The ghost wobbled; some contorted reflection in a fun mirror at a carnival. Crowley clutched tighter to the bottle beside him. He wasn’t feeling so good. Of course, he hadn’t been for the past hour or so.

“Nah,” Crowley slurred, his voice was creaking off in bits. “I changed my mind. Stuff happened. I lost my best friend.”

If it really was Aziraphale in front of him, which it felt like it. It had to be. Crowley was spilling his heart everywhere. It was his turn to hand his heart over to Aziraphale. The words, the actions lingered in the back of his head. “Here. Take it. It’s yours. From the moment I met you, it’s yours.” 

“I’m so sorry to hear it,” Aziraphale answered.

Crowley couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t fucking bear it. But he let it happen. He was an emotional wreck, everything else to come would just come and he had to be fine with it. The world was ending, it was the last of everything. Aziraphale was gone, but not really. 

Aziraphale asked for a book. Crowley lit up. It was a miracle. Demonic or angelic, it was a miracle. He had the book. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of—

“Agnes Nutter!” Crowley cried. “Yes, I took it!”

He looked inside. That’s what Aziraphale told him to do. And Crowley always did what Aziraphale told him to do. It shouldn’t be that way, but Crowley wasn’t a leader in the slightest. He was a follower, and he would follow Aziraphale anywhere. 

“I worked it all out,” Aziraphale said. 

“Look, wherever you are, I’ll come to you,” Crowley’s voice broke. He really would. He really, honestly, in all the realms of the world; Heaven, Hell, beyond. Space and the end of it. That bubble outside of the universe that wasn’t really a bubble, more of a vacuum. He’d go there. To find Aziraphale,  _ to be with _ Aziraphale. “Where are you?”

“I’m not really anywhere yet,” Aziraphale replied. “I’ve been discorporated. You need to get to Tadfield Air Base.”

And Crowley would. He’d go there. It’s where Aziraphale wanted him to go. It’s where Aziraphale would most likely end up. It’s where Aziraphale and Crowley would be reunited.

The world was going to end there. 

“I’ll head there, too,” Aziraphale said.

**After Armageddon.**

It was over. Armageddon existed for no longer than maybe an hour. There was no huge battle between the angels and demons. Crowley and Aziraphale had… done their own part in helping to save the world. 

And they now sat on a bench in Tadfield. Crowley’s Bentley had burnt up, just as Aziraphale’s bookshop had done. It was night, the little town around them felt empty. They were alone waiting for the bus. 

“What’s that?” Crowley directed his attention to a piece of paper in Aziraphale’s hand.

“It fell out of Agnes Nutter’s book,” Aziraphale said. He gave the slip of paper to Crowley. The edges were burnt, and messaged was neatly typed up:

“5004. When alle is fayed and all is done, ye

must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff

ye will be playing with fyre.”

Crowley read the prophecy. It, of course, wouldn’t make sense until it was meant to make sense. But if everything was connected, the prophecy would, of course, apply to Aziraphale and Crowley. Why else have in end up in their hands? It was of some fate, perhaps. 

A vehicle approached, the tires skidding to a stop. It broke the peace. Crowley wanted to contain it. Contain this moment with Aziraphale; it was just another day of them sitting together, talking, but it was warmer, a moment they could exist in without worry. 

“Angel, what if the Almighty planned it like this all along?” Crowley said. “From the very beginning.”

“Could have,” Aziraphale answered. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

Some delivery man came by. He spoke some nonsense, took the box that took up the space between Crowley and Aziraphale, and fled.

The bus that the angel and demon were waiting for slowly pulled up. The front lights filled the town street. It wasn’t long before they weren’t alone. Crowley scolded himself. He needed to stop thinking that every moment wasn’t peaceful when Aziraphale was there, at least. 

“Oh, There it is,” Aziraphale said. He pointed it out like he also didn’t want this moment alone to end. “It says ‘Oxford’ on the front.”

“Yeah, but he’ll drive to London anyway.” Another demonic miracle. “He just won’t know why.”

“I suppose I should get him to drop me off at the bookshop.”

Crowley turned at looked at Aziraphale. The angel had forgotten. Or was leading somewhere. Either way, it broke Crowley’s heart just to repeat it.

“It burned down, remember?” Crowley said with the softest voice. And then he followed up with something that would break his heart even more. It was something he yearned for with more passion than anything. A simple rendezvous. A sentence with a meaning that couldn’t find it’s way in a word. It was something friends often offered. It was a refugee. It was an offer that met more decline than accepting. “You can stay at my place, if you like.”

Aziraphale turned and his let his lips part, wanting to say yes. 

“I don’t think my side would like that.”

“You don’t have a side anymore,” Crowley said. “Neither of us do. We’re on our own side.” He watched Aziraphale flounder for a second. “Like Agnes said, we are going to have to choose our faces wisely.”

The bus pulled up. Aziraphale and Crowley retired from their conversation and boarded. This time, unlike the many times before, they sat next to each other. Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s hand and held it; Crowley fell limp, at first, and then reciprocated. 

**At Crowley’s flat.**

The bus dropped them off in London. Together, the angel and demon walked to Crowley’s flat. At some point their hands had unlatched, but they were still pressed close together as the night wrapped tightly around them.

Inside Crowley’s flat it felt vacant. The remains of Ligur still uncleaned off Crowley’s usually very well polished floors. He gave Aziraphale a look. ‘See, this is what the holy water was for, angel.’

How the conversation of feelings started, neither Crowley nor Aziraphale knew. But it was long overdue and well awaited. Crowley sat at his desk, Aziraphale across from him on one of the couches. 

“I’d like to think I look at you as though you created the world, angel, ” Crowley mused from behind his dark desk.

Aziraphale tried to conceal the blush that informally spread across his angelic features. He was sure to be teased for it, but he wasn’t. “But God created the world, Crowley.”

“And you’ve made it infinitely better,” Crowley replied. The demon’s yellow, slit eyes wandered up Aziraphale’s pink face; his lips no longer peeled upward in the devilish way they always did; instead, a smile as tender as tulips had miraculously appeared on Crowley’s face.

It stunned Aziraphale, who had known Crowley for 6,000 years — known him through love and brutality and the almost end of times — and still believed the feelings he harbored were only one-sided. How miraculously wrong he was indeed. His feelings, often aflutter, were not alone in its angst. There was always a kindness that bubbled within Crowley, Aziraphale called him out on it forever, but Crowley rejected any kind of happenstance. Now Crowley could not deny that he was yearning infinitely. 

“Do you really feel that way?” Aziraphale asked with wide eyes. 

“Obviously,” Crowley answered. “What a stupid question. ‘Do I really feel that way.’ Yes, for 6,000 fucking years now. For as long as humans have roamed. After all, angel, I asked you to run away to the stars with me.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said. He was only a few feet from Crowley, he could walk up next to him, if he liked, but Aziraphale felt millions of miles away. He felt like he was struggling to stand next to Crowley, to claw nearer; and he longed so desperately to be near. There was a stone sitting inside his chest, which felt vacant yet full of excitement.

“Would you have come with me?” Crowley asked. “If we weren’t able to stop Armageddon, if Adam didn’t stand up to his… father.” It was Crowley’s turn to question everything, as always. It’s what put him in Hell, it’s what’ll make or break him, someday. He wanted to know, even if Aziraphale ended up breaking his heart,  _ again _ . A thousand times Aziraphale could break his heart, and still, every time, Crowley would come slithering back. 

Aziraphale paused. Yes, always.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “You’re the only person who… understands me.” It was true. All the other angels were ignorant of feeling empathy for earth, for the beings they were sought to protect, to do good by. Even if Crowley was a demon, he half-assed all his assignments; always came back to Aziraphale after a long decade; he didn’t feel wholly apart of the system he was supposed to be so intrinsically tied to. Both Crowley and Aziraphale did not feel like they belonged in these respective organizations — Heaven and Hell. All of it, however, managed to be a farce. 

Crowley stood. He got up from behind his desk and glided toward Aziraphale in that hip dislodging gait which he carried himself with. Aziraphale could feel it, some cosmic magnet pulling them slowly back together again. Perhaps it was always there; the reason why Crowley always came to find Aziraphale, and sometimes vice versa. Perhaps all of it had been planned right from the very start, when they met each other on the seventh day of creation. 

“I’m tired of waiting,” Crowley complained. He stood tall, a swoop of red strands falling from his coiffed hair and curling over his forehead.

“Don’t say another word,” Aziraphale said. He took a step forward, and with some leap of faith, cupped Crowley’s cheeks in his hands. Aziraphale was soft. He was soft for Crowley. His thumb ran over Crowley’s lips, only briefly, however, because it was so difficult for either of them to hold back anymore.

Aziraphale was the one who initiated the kiss. Not because Crowley  _ didn’t _ want to kiss him, but because Crowley was hesitant, and wanted to continue looking deeply into Aziraphale’s eyes. They were most mesmerizing to him. And Crowley was glad that Aziraphale initiated the kiss because now they were in-twinned, unable to part, not even for the slightest moment. All the 6,000 years spent waiting were finally worth every damned second. 


End file.
